


count the ways we could make this last forever (the danmei age swap remix)

by spookyfoot



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Age Swap, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Knight Shiro, M/M, Prince Keith, because i have some thoughts...., hey vld did anyone ever tell u that u dropped ur quintessence as a finite natural resource allegory, no chinese web novels were harmed in the making of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 05:02:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19288690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/pseuds/spookyfoot
Summary: “Shiro?” the Prince says, voice a little hoarse. He leans out the window, the sheer white fabric of his nightshirt folding open around his neck, dancing in the late evening breeze.“Your highness,” Shiro says. He’s distracted by the way the Prince’s eyes catch the candle light.“What are you doing here?”“Kidnapping you,” Shiro says. He flashes the Prince a half smile even though his heart is hammering a million miles per hour inside of his chest.The Prince raises an eyebrow and bites back a smile. “Really? The Captain of my own guard kidnapping me? What will people say?”





	count the ways we could make this last forever (the danmei age swap remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sugarcubeshiro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarcubeshiro/gifts).
  * Inspired by [like it better if we both pretend](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17479430) by [sugarcubeshiro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sugarcubeshiro/pseuds/sugarcubeshiro). 



> HEY BLUE I HOPE U LIKE COURT POLITICS AND WORLDBUILDING!!!! you set up some gr9 things in your original fic and then i ran with them. and kept running. and uh....took some heavy inspiration from the chinese web novels i've been reading (hence the remix title). specifically: mo dao zu shi, tian guan ci fu, and sha po lang. especially the last one. 
> 
> (i hope you) enjoy!

The night after Shiro moves out of the barracks and into the east wing of the palace, there’s a loud sound beneath his window just as he’s about to start getting ready to sleep. He’s already taken off all of his armor for the night and stripped down to his thin night clothes. He only has one candle still lit, though it’s more of a nub than anything. Shiro cups it in his hand, careful to keep the wax from burning him. His caution doesn’t do much when he presses his face to the glass jumps back, drops of hot wax flying onto his arm, leaving small welts on his skin. He hisses and almost drops the candle before he sets it aside to raise the sash. “Prince Keith, what are you doing here?”

“Corrupting the youth,” Prince Keith says. In the moonlight, Shiro can just make out one raised eyebrow and small, dry smile unfolding on his face.

Shiro has to laugh, even as his eyes dart over the empty courtyard. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Your time at the palace has made you bold, telling royalty what to do,” Prince Keith’s smile grows wider.

Shiro’s ears burn, though he knows the prince is just teasing him.

 _I could get in trouble,_ Shiro thinks.

Prince Keith seems to know what he’s thinking, because he says, "Whoever gets you in trouble will find they’re in trouble with me. Now get down here, there’s something I want to show you.”

“What?”

“You have to come with me to find out,” Prince Keith says.

Shiro rolls his eyes, but he swings one leg over his window sill and feeling around for the ledge beneath with his foot. Even if he does get in trouble, he’ll deal with it himself. Prince Keith already gave him a second chance—and then a third when Shiro fought the other squires. Although Shiro has worked doubly hard to prove his own worth since then, he refuses to give anyone he’s risen above a reason to think he’s gotten where he is on anything other than merit.

He will not be a burden.

Shiro’s feet touch kick up a cloud of dust when they hit the ground. He turns to face the prince and the moon catches Prince Keith’s eyes, making them glow, cat-like in the dark. “Took you long enough."

________________________________

The Kerberos Wastes look alien in the moonlight. Prince Keith guides his horse swiftly and without hesitation. It’s clear that this is somewhere he’s been before and often. Red picks her way across the sand, the flat planes of the desert giving way to a small low shape on the distant horizon. Prince Keith leads them straight for it.

To their right are the high jagged cliffs that serve as the base for the Eastern citatel, a single flame burning into the night, ready to become a beacon if necessary.

Prince Keith doesn’t spare it a glance.

After some time, they arrive at a low wooden structure that looks as though the weight of time has made it go lopsided. Prince Keith spurs Red into a gallop and without even questioning it, Shiro digs his heels in so that Black keeps pace.

Prince Keith ties Red to a post a few meters away from the front porch. Then he turns towards the house, expression fond and sad all at once.

“What is this place?” Shiro asks. He finishes tying Black to the post beside Red and moves to stand beside the prince.

“This is where I grew up.”

________________________________

The inside of the shack is dusty and not much to look at. It’s been stripped of all personal artifacts, though it has rations and supplies and communication arrays that,Shiro is a little surprised to note, are still completely functional.

There are no hints of what the Prince was like as a child to be found, though that doesn’t stop Shiro from looking for them. It’s not a big space and much of it is taken up with crates of supplies. It’s completely functional, but there’s nothing personal. And those are the parts of the Prince that Shiro treasures the most. The parts that he hoards for himself.

After some time, the Prince places a warm, deceptively delicate hand on his shoulder and leads him toward the door. He stoops down next to a cupboard on the way outdoor and pulls out two blankets; the pieces of hair that have escaped his braid fall into his eyes, hiding some of his expression from Shiro’s view. But his hand and the way he handles the blankets is undeniably gentle—reverent, even.

It only lasts a second, but it leaves Shiro feeling warm, like the Prince pulled him close and whispered a secret in his ear.

Then they head outside, the warm weight of the Prince’s hand on his shoulder like the most comforting sort of anchor he’d never let himself imagine. It’s a little cold this time of night, with no landmarks around them to trap the heat. The moonlight reflects over the flat windswept and it’s clear that the two of them are the only people for miles and miles.

It’s nice.

The prince leads him out a few hundred feet away from the cabin and lays out a blanket that's barely big enough for the two of them to lie on together. He can feel the warmth emanating from the Prince’s skin. Shiro keeps his eyes trained towards the night sky. It’s easier to see the stars out here.

They stay like that for a while, silent aside from the hum of the cicadas, the whoosh of air as they breathe just slightly out of time with one another.

“My father used to take me out here,” the Prince says.

Shiro forgets to breathe. Neither the Prince or the Queen ever mentions the Prince’s father. Shiro holds himself still, scared to break the silence, of breaking something he’s not sure he’ll ever get another chance at.

“I wonder what it’s like up there,” the Prince continues. “I always promised myself that I’d find out one day. If we ever figure out how to make it up, I’d like to see the stars.”

 _You will,_ Shiro wants to say. But he doesn’t; it’s not a promise he can make and keep, not even to himself. And one of the first things that his friendship with the Prince taught him was that despite what might go on in the rest of the world, promises meant something. They weren’t something the Prince made lightly, and so Shiro followed his lead and treated his own promises with the same gravity.

So it would just have to be a promise that he made with himself. At least, for now.

________________________________

After he learns that a treasonous sect, the Fire of Purification are involved with the quintessence chokehold gripping Arus, the Prince is ready to go to the Northern Borders immediately to either implicate or absolve the governor of Naxela. The court demands that he meet with the various heads of different departments and request supplies and soldiers. Shiro knows for a fact that many of the men and women he went through training with are putting in their names to accompany the Prince to the furthest reaches of their country and defend its borders. Despite this, the next several weeks are slow going.

They receive reports of refugee camps being set up by the Northern Guard, and Shiro sees the Prince fuming every day about not being able to protect all of his people.

“Those idiots may as well just say that they don’t care about anything other than themselves and their wealth,” the Prince says. He’s pacing around his study. Shiro has to carefully keep him away from his new desk. He’s already destroyed two this week.  

The Prince isn’t exactly...wrong about that. But obsessing over an obvious truth isn’t going to help them.

Despite this, the court only gets worse, placing barrier after barrier in their way, claiming that they will have to make due with a meager allocation of rations, since if Arus comes under siege they will have to support a large population.

Lord Sendak, the Minister of War, watches it all with a calm, but undeniably pleased look on his face.

The Prince destroys two more desks and decapitates five state of the art training dummies.

Perhaps it’s time to remind the Prince exactly what he’s fighting for.

________________________________

Shiro throws a rock at the Prince’s window, desperately hoping that he doesn’t just...break it.

It takes a few before the Prince notices that Shiro’s there. Shiro’s just about to draw his arm back to launch another one when the window opens to reveal the Prince leaning out the window, his hair loose around his face, a candle in his hand, illuminating him from below. Shiro feels his breath catch in his throat.

“Shiro?” the Prince says, voice a little hoarse. He leans out the window, the sheer white fabric of his nightshirt folding open around his neck, dancing in the late evening breeze.

“Your highness,” Shiro says. He’s distracted by the way the Prince’s eyes catch the candle light.

“What are you doing here?”

“Kidnapping you,” Shiro says. He flashes the Prince a half smile even though his heart is hammering a million miles per hour inside of his chest.

The Prince raises an eyebrow and bites back a smile. “Really? The Captain of my own guard kidnapping me? What will people say?”

“If everything goes to plan, then they’ll never know,” Shiro says. He surreptitiously wipes his palms on his pants.

“And if it doesn’t go to plan?”

“We’ll deal with that when we get there,” Shiro says, with a confidence that he doesn’t entirely feel.

The Prince lets out another hoarse laugh. “So daring, Captain Shirogane. You’d never recognize you as the same boy who thought he was going to get kicked out for fighting all those years ago.”

“People change.”

“They do,” the Prince says contemplatively. The candle in his hand flickers. “Give me a moment, I’ll be right down.”

“Wear your practice clothes,” Shiro says. He shifts a little, the bag on his back feels heavy with a weight that far outstrips its contents.

The Prince disappears for a moment, though Shiro can still see the faint orange glow of candle light. He takes a moment to look around. None of the guards should be by here at this time of night, but it doesn’t hurt to check. There’s no guarantee that someone won’t take a stroll by the Prince’s chambers and give them a surprise.

Then the Prince’s room goes dark and Shiro sees a lithe figure climb out the window and scale down the side of the wall with practiced ease. In no time at all, the Prince is standing right in front of Shiro in his familiar, worn practice clothes. They’re form fitting in all the right places and it makes Shiro’s mouth go a little dry. Still he hands the Prince the bag of things that he brought with him. “Here, your highness.”

“You brought me a present?” The Prince pulls the drawstring at the bag and looks amused. “Are you sure these will fit?”

Matt’s about the Prince’s size. “They’ll have to.”

The Prince pulls them on quickly. It’s the first time in all the years that Shiro’s known him that he’s truly dressed casually. Even his practice clothes carry the air of something too fine to be worn by anyone less than royalty. Although Shiro knows the Prince well enough to know that that’s a function of Palace politics more than an indication of the Prince’s own preferences.

“Hurry, your highness, we don’t have much time.”

The Prince doesn’t move. In fact, there’s an incredibly smug smile unfolding on his face. “If I’m assuming correctly, I’m in disguise as a commoner. So unless you want to give it all away, you’re just going to have to call me Keith.”

________________________________

Arus's capital is still lively at night. The cobbled streets with two or three story buildings lining either side still have lights on in many of the windows. Up ahead is the oldest district of the city other than the Palace, and even from here, Shiro can hear lively voices spilling out into the streets. The Prince’s head hasn’t stopped moving since they left the Palace proper, like he’s doing his best to drink in everything surrounding him, like even though he’s lived in the city for years at this point he’s seeing it with entirely new eyes.

Shiro feels like he’s seeing it with new eyes, too, just from watching him.

“Shouldn’t you be watching where we’re going, Shiro?’ the Pr—Keith says. Shiro has to correct himself in his head, fighting a habit that’s been years in the making. “It’s not like _I_ know where we’re going.”

“Shut it,” Shiro grits out. He immediately regrets it because he really can’t speak to a Prince that way.

The Prince in question doesn’t seem to mind it at all. “Make me,” Keith says. He seems unreasonably delighted by Shiro’s rudeness.

Shiro gently grabs the Prince’s elbow and steers left and him down a broad avenue that’s lit up with more lights than the previous street. Ahead, there are several doors open and loud voices spill out into the night.

“Are you taking me to a _bar_?” Keith’s eyes are sparkling and darting back and forth, like he’s trying to guess their destination.

“I’m not going to ruin the surprise.”

“The Captain of the Prince’s Guard is corrupting me with liquor,” Keith says. The tips of Shiro’s ears burn, but it’s worth it to see the Prince actually acting his age. He’s not that much older than Shiro, but all too often the politics of court make it seem like he’s been weighed down with extra years he didn’t live himself.

Shiro shushes him and leads him into Vrepit Sal’s, a bar that he’s only been to a few times and that’s known far more for its liquor than its food. It’s a good thing, then, that liquor is what they’re here for.

There’s a small, corner table open and Shiro steers Keith to the open seats, ignoring the way his boots stick ominously to the floor. He returns with two pints, one for each of them.

The Prince downs his immediately like he’s got something to prove. And maybe he does. “I bet I could drink you under the table.”

“Oh could you?” Shiro says. He knows it’s a bad idea, there’s no question it’s an absolutely terrible idea if the two of them want to make it back to the castle without incident. But the way that the Prince is looking at him over the top of his now empty mug, is enough to make the competitive part of his brain take over.

Royalty or not, Shiro refuses to lose.

________________________________

The two of them toddle back to the castle several hours later, minor details like the actual winner of their contest lost in a drunken haze.

They’re only a few streets away from the bar when Keith stumbles and sways his way into Shiro’s side. His head rests neatly on Shiro’s shoulder like it was made to fit there. Shiro curls an arm around his waist. Keith is so strong, in so many ways, that sometimes it’s all too easy to forget just how small and slender he is.

He’s aware of it now. Very very aware of it.

Keith—no, the Prince, rolls his head to the side, lips brushing over the exposed skin of Shiro’s neck. Shiro involuntarily tightens his arm around the Prince’s waist.

By the time they get back to the Prince’s rooms, Shiro’s not sure that the Prince is sober enough to make his way up himself. And it’s not as though Shiro can sneak him inside. But to his surprise, the Prince nimbly uncurls himself from Shiro’s embrace and leans in close. For a moment, Shiro can’t stop himself from thinking that the Prince is going to kiss him.

But then the Prince bypasses his mouth entirely, and leans in towards his ear.

“Good night, Shiro,” the Prince whispers. Then strips off the borrowed clothes to reveal his own before he scales the wall like he didn’t down who knows how many mugs of beer and climbs into his room.

Despite the risk of being caught, Shiro can’t make himself move for a long time.

________________________________

They head out to the border a few days later. There’s no time to talk about what happened between the two of them the other night. Then again, it’s likely that Shiro would never bring it up. Neither of them are cowards but there’s a lot riding on this mission independent of the two of them. More than anything, Shiro wants to live up to the lofty—or not so lofty in terms of the other courtiers expectations that come along with the title of Captain of the Prince’s Guard.

No one seems to think that either Shiro or the Prince are qualified to bear the weight of the titles that have fallen on their shoulders.

They set out before the sun rises, a streaky orange dawn greeting them as they make their way towards the eastern border. It’s not a big group, less than they need, that’s to be sure, but there’s more than a few familiar faces among their party. They make their way out of the city, passing the tall stone towers that serve as both the guard posts and boundary markers for the capital.

In the lights at the top of each, Shiro knows that there’s someone keeping watch still, the lightning lamp still lit for now as they wait for dawn to fully show its face.

Ahead of them are the broad plains, with a long river snaking through, little more than a slim silvery ribbon at this distance. The land here is fertile, and good farmland, though the closer to the city the more expensive it gets to obtain a deed. That means that there are still parts of this land that lie fallow, only some of them have been razed and cultivated into farmland, some of them with clusters of houses and cottages taking advantage of the proximity to the capital.

In the distance, the land rises and turns into broad rolling hills, known to shelter bandits when it gets too cold for them to continue secluding themselves in the mountains. But those times are few and far between, and the task of cleaning up the mountains is generally pawned off on the newly knighted.

The Prince and his company are only passing through, They should be alright.

________________________________

After a long, incredibly dusty journey, they finally near their destination. There have been a few injuries, but they’ve made it to the northern border in good time. The Northern border also happens to be where the major port city of Naxela is located. It’s surrounded by steep hills on one side and ocean on the other, giving them a defensive advantage provided their forces can withstand a siege long enough for reinforcements to arrive from the capital.

Luckily, things haven’t gotten to that point yet, but the fear is there, rolling in over Naxela like the early morning fog rolls in from the bay.

But, to be honest, Shiro’s not thinking about any of that because Shiro has never seen the ocean before. It’s not as blue as he imagined it would be, and it’s not quite the same as it looks in the magical moving images he sometimes sees nobles showing off at court. Despite that, he stands still for a few moments, frozen by awe. Although he’s heard and read about far away lands and knows that there is something on the other side, from here the ocean looks endless, infinite.

Shiro feels small, but not in a bad way. It’s just the deep understanding that the world is so much wider than just him.

He’s not the only one. The Prince is frozen on his own horse just beside Shiro’s and when Shiro turns to look back he sees that the rest of their party has stalled too.

Far off in the distance, closer to the water, Shiro can make out the round red terra-cotta tile of a building that stands apart from the rest; it’s stark white while the riot of colors crowding the rest of the rest of the city’s skyline.

They end up making camp outside of the city proper. Although all of them desperately want to sleep in a bed, a fairly large number of travelers flooding several of Naxela’s Inns would draw attention to their party, alerting the Fire of Purification to their presence and cause them to scatter, making the whole trip nothing more than a heavily armed sight seeing opportunity.

A fair portion of the quintessence that they use in Arus comes from overseas, imported primarily through Naxela. It’s one of the most important cities in Arus accounting for the lion's share of their exports. Most of the country’s good pass through Naxela at some point. It would be harder to find the ones that don’t.

They find a good open glade near the patchy woods that lays at the base of the foothills that circle the city. It’s close enough that everything within the city borders is a reasonable distance if trouble arises, but far enough they shouldn’t attract notice with the added benefit that the surrounding trees should provide them with a fair amount of cover should anyone decide to come sniffing around their camp.

When Shiro ventures inside, he discovers that the streets are decorated just as brightly as the houses. There are people wearing costumes everywhere, faces tidy, clearly flush with a heady combination of alcohol and high spirits. A gaggle of masked teenagers stream around them. They can’t be that much younger than some of the members of their party, maybe they’re even the same age as Pidge.

The rest of their group has fanned out, seamlessly mixing in among the crowd. Shiro probably shouldn’t be surprised that he and the Prince ended up together, but it sends a pleasant thrill shooting up his spine nonetheless. The streets of Naxela are much narrower than the ones in the capital, signs jut out from the buildings at odd angles, some of them low enough that Shiro has to duck to avoid hitting his head.

Prince Keith barely manages to hold back his laughter, though perhaps he wasn’t trying to hold it back in the first place.

“Laugh it up y-Keith,” Shiro says. He manages to stop himself from addressing the Prince by title at the last moment.

“Thank you for the permission,” Keith says. There are a lot of people buzzing around them; the cobbled streets here are narrower than they are in the Capital and there are stalls lining either side. The rich smell of roasted meats and nuts filling the air is absolutely mouthwatering, the thick heaviness at the back of Shiro’s tongue like his body is imagining biting into a golden brown turkey leg before his hands and wallet can catch up.

Naxela is a beautiful, vibrant city. Shiro wishes that he were here under better circumstances. He’s caught up in examining the wares of a merchant who is selling tiny towns with moving people trapped in transparent glass spheres transparent spheres. Some of them are no bigger than the palm of Shiro’s hand, some are about the size of his head.

In one of the spheres, he can see two young boys, one in red and one in black, packing balls of snow together. The boy wearing black slides away while the boy in red is putting the finishing touches on their snowman, forming a snowball between his hands and hurling it at the other boy’s back. The boy in red jumps in surprise and even though the miniature world inside of the sphere is nothing more than an illusion, Shiro swears he can hear them laughing and yelling as they each duck behind whatever natural cover they can find. Soon enough it turns into an all-out snowball war. Shiro is pretty sure he could stay and watch it forever, but he’s shaken out of his stupor by the familiar weight of a warm hand curling around his shoulder.

“Do you want it?” Keith says, cutting right to the point of things just like he always does. It’s one of the things that Shiro loves most about him, but it’s also one of the reasons that the sharks in the Arusian court have been circling this expedition like they can smell blood in the water.

Shiro doesn’t bother denying it. He’s been staring at it long enough that anything other than a _yes_ would ring false.

“Then your wish is my command,” Keith says with a cheeky smile. He fishes a few coins out of his cloak and hands them over to the merchant.

They arrived well before the sun hit its peak. Although they're here to get to the root of the branches choking the quintessence supply line that runs into the Kingdom, it's hard not to fall under Naxela's spell. Everywhere they turn, there are people celebrating. A pair of girls passes by them, their arms looped around one another waist; they each carry a metal goblet of wine in the other hand. The one with the darker hair says something that makes the fair one laugh, heedless that most of her glass splashes out onto the cobblestones. They're lost to the crowd only moments later.

Shiro turns towards Keith. In profile, Keith somehow looks younger and older than his twenty five years. Like the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders took some of his years, too. There's a soft, melancholy fondness around the corners of his eyes, as though staring at the crowd will bring something lost back to him. 

"Keith?"

Keith snaps back towards him, an emotion flickering across his face too fast for Shiro can read it.

“We should keep moving,” Keith says. He hooks his arm through Shiro’s and it takes all of Shiro’s considerable training of not reacting to adrenaline to keep his cool.

The mass of people only grows thicker as they get closer to the center of town, where the wide open square is lined with more merchants selling food and trinkets, various performers at the center. A man breathes a plume of fire into an astonished crowd, another has a sword balanced on the tip of his finger, a woman dangles from a long skein of silk, dancing mid air to an astonished and enraptured crowd.

“Look,” Keith whispers. Shiro follow his line of sight to the other side of the square, where the jagged line of multi-hued buildings look like they’ve been capped by a large terracotta dome.

The Governor’s Mansion.

It’s captivating enough that Shiro almost misses the two well-dressed men sliding out of sight down a nearby alley. It shouldn’t be anything more than another passing pair amidst the crowd, sneaking off for a rendezvous or to duck into one of the apartments that sit over the ground level shops. They’re dressed in the usual finery of merchants passing through Naxela, not to dissimilar to the clothing Shiro and Keith are wearing to blend it. But Shiro keep staring after them, at the point where they vanished long after the men themselves have disappeared. It’s the way the garments sit on them, like ill-fitting skin.

“What’s wrong?” Keith asks.

It’s not just the clothing, Shiro has the sense that he’s seen the two of them before.

“I’m not sure it’s anything,” he says.

“That means it may be something.” The Prince’s brows draw together, his expression set. “Come on.”

________________________________

They head down the alley where the two men disappeared. It’s a twisting, winding thing, clearly where many of the shops receive their deliveries.

On one of the walls, someone’s drawn a small, purple flame. Shiro’s seen it before, on the chest of the bandits that roam in the low foothills just outside of Arus, smuggling quintessence through the usual supply lines. Keith has long since suspected someone on the inside, siphoning it off for their own gain, destabilizing House Akira’s hold on the court.  Keith runs his fingers over it, frowning. His fingers come away wet.

“We need to keep moving,” Shiro says. He’s taller than the Prince now, has been for a few years. Despite that, he’s still not used to how easy it is to reach out and curl a hand around Keith’s shoulder like Keith used to do to him.

Keith nods even as he continues to rub his thumb and index finger together, the purple paint going tacky between them.

They follow the alley around, coming out on the other side of the square, perpendicular to the direction they entered from.

Keith hooks his arm through Shiro’s, then drags him into the mass of people, buying the two of them each a mug of sweet elderflower wine.

“On your left,” Keith hisses as he takes a sip. Although he drinks for a long while, when Shiro sneaks a look at his cup, barely any liquid has disappeared.

So they’re playing that game.

To their left, the two men Shiro saw earlier are examining a set of decorative throwing knives, the sort young nobles will hang on the walls of their own homes and give a far greater heritage than they’re due.

Keith takes another long “sip” from his mug and leans into Shiro, as though his body has gone heavy from the flood of alcohol in his veins. His chin tilts up, sharp eyes meeting Shiro’s own, then flickering down. Shiro can’t help the way his own fall on the pink bow of the Prince’s mouth, still a little wet from wine. He runs his finger over Keith’s lips, maybe letting his thumb linger a little longer than is wise, Keith’s breath hot against his skin.

For a moment, it’s as though all the noise in the square has been muffled in cotton, Shiro swears the only thing he can hear is the huff of Keith’s breath, a little quicker than normal.

“They’re moving,” Keith says. The moment breaks. Shiro slides and arm over Keith’s shoulders, wheeling the two of them around the two of them to follow, pretending he’s a little off balance.

(Maybe he doesn’t have to pretend that much.)

________________________________

They lose track of the two men just outside of the Governor’s Manor. There are guards circling the perimeter, but it’s clear that a few of them have had something to drink. It’s easy to find a that’s been left mostly unguarded. It’s small, most people couldn’t fit through it—Shiro definitely can’t. But it doesn’t take much for the Prince to slip through the window.

“Keep watch,” he says.

“Let come with you.”

“If someone comes, you need to give me a signal,” The prince says. He slides off one of his rings. There are two he has only recently started to wear, one black, one red. Shiro was curious, but still kept himself from asking. It looks like he’s going to get his answer now. Keith hands Shiro the black one, dropping it in the center of his palm. "If I’m in trouble, this will get warm."

“Keith,” Shiro hisses.

But Keith disappears through the window without a second glance.

________________________________

Shiro paces back and forth for a few minutes before he hears the quiet click of footsteps heading right towards him. He looks up. The window Keith used to enter the Govenor’s Manor is still ajar, and there’s no telling when he’ll be back.  Shiro feels the ring on his hand grow hot. Is it because he’s in trouble or because Keith is?

The footsteps get louder. There’s not much time left, not time to figure out why, exactly, the ring on Shiro’s finger feels like it’s about to burn his joint clean off.

Shiro makes the executive decision. He trusts Keith to find his way out, he has to. Shiro reaches up and slides the window shut, hearing it latch with an ominous click. He walks fast, turning the corner of the alley before he can tell the footsteps are only a few meters away. They stop. Shiro holds his breath.

It’s a long few moments before they start up again, this time heading away, growing fainter and fainter until they disappear into the noise of the unceasing celebrations in the square.

________________________________

There’s nothing for Shiro to do but wait.

He can't loiter by the mansion, so he mixes with the crowd on the busy main street. Browsing through the stalls, he finds a merchant selling charmed goods—rings that are meant to bring wealth, amulets on delicate chains that promise the protection of a loved one.

Shiro empties his pockets buying the later.

When he takes a look towards the guards at the front of the Manor, he notices that they’re not the same as they were an hour ago, though there hardly look more alert than the last set. Another guard comes out of the set of large, red double doors, the guard on the left, portly and fair haired looks a little surprised. His hand drops to the sword at his waist and he follows the other guard inside.

A hand cups Shiro’s shoulder from behind and his heart stops in his throat.

“Miss me?”

Shiro exhales. He turns around. “Good timing.”

________________________________

The others are waiting for the two of them when they get back to the clearing. Hunk and Lance are sitting around a fire, with several wild birds they’ve caught roasting on a spit over a fire. A few meters away, Shiro sees Griffin and Rizavi sparring a few feet away. Rizavi knocks Griffin on his ass, letting out a sharp laugh that rings through the clearing a little louder than is wise.

“Are you trying to get us caught?” Shiro can hear Griffin snap, even from here.

The rest eye the Prince with an undisguised curiosity. He gives them a crisp, curt nod. “Got what we came for. We can discuss it more later,” he says, effectively closing that avenue of discussion. Griffin and Lance continue looking at the Prince for a few moments longer but then even they give it up as a lost cause and go back to what they were doing.

The Prince bumps his shoulder into Shiro’s. “You up to spar?”

With the flood of adrenaline running through Shiro’s system after the Prince’s little disappearing act, he could do with working off a little nervous energy.

“Lead the way,” Shiro says.

The Prince answers him with a grin that just about makes Shiro’s heart stop in his chest. “Yes, Captain,” he replies.

Shiro follows him into a nearby clearing. The sounds of camp are still audible, but more muted, distant. Like this, Shiro can believe that it’s just the two of them. That they’ve come out here not because of a mission threatening the safety of the crown, of the kingdom. The trees around them form something of a natural circle, it’s almost like a ring designed by nature for this particular purpose.

The take their stances. Shiro feels the Prince’s eyes tracing the line of his body and just barely holds back a shiver.

“Best two out of three?” Shiro asks.

“You’re on.”

Despite waving the starting flag, neither of them move for another few moments. Shiro hears Lance shouting “Hey!’ from camp followed by a chorus of laughter.

The Prince uses that momentary lapse in attention to make his move. Even after all the years Shiro’s known him, he’s never stopped being in awe of the way the Prince moves. It’s fluid, lightning fast, and there’s a style to it all his own. Though Shiro’s spent hours and hours of his time studying the sword and hand to hand combat, there’s never been anyone who’s taught him quite as many new things as the Prince.

Despite all the times they’ve sparred against one another, Shiro’s still thrown off balance when the Prince doesn’t finesse his attack and instead barrels straight towards him. When it comes to their best attributes as fighters, strength has always been Shiro’s, well strength. He’s broader, and more heavily muscled than the Prince’s lean frame. Right now, the Prince is using surprise to make up the difference between them.

Shiro feints left, but not in time to prevent the Prince from clipping him. The Prince steamrolls past him, turning on a dime to face Shiro who ignores the twinge in his elbow to ready himself again.

“Not bad,” Shiro says. He keeps his tone light, just to get under the Prince’s skin. It’s a tactic he wouldn’t allow himself if the circumstances were anything other than just the two of them. Then he barrels towards the Prince, knocking him to the ground and pinning him. The Prince manages to worm his way free, and flip their positions, on hand to Shiro’s chest, a thigh on either side of his torso. His face is flushed from the sun and the exertion, and his face is close—so close that Shiro can see that his eyes are almost all pupil.

Shiro licks his lips. The Prince’s eyes flicker downward to trace the path of his tongue.

“First match to you,” Shiro says. He’s proud of the way he keeps his voice steady.

“Let’s see who gets the second.” The Prince springs to his feet. Even when Shiro’s standing, he swears that he can still feel the weight of the Prince’s body pressing against his.

The next match ends with them chest to chest, the Prince’s arms stretched over his head, each of Shiro’s hands like a manacle around the Prince’s wrists, trapping him.

A bead of sweat trickles down the Prince’s throat. Shiro’s powerless to do anything other than follow it with his eyes. He leans in closer. There’s only an inch between the two of them but neither of them move to close that final bit of distance.

They spring to their feet.

“Final match, are you—“

“Shiro!” the Prince cries, but it’s too late, there’s a heavy blow to the back of Shiro’s head and everything goes dark.

________________________________

Shiro comes to what must be moments later. A few feet away, he can make out a body. The most promising thing he can say is that he doesn’t recognize him. He doesn’t see the Prince. Where are the others? What happened to them?

Shiro strains to hear anything, and finally makes out the low murmur of voices, too far away to make out anything distinct. Then, the sound of steel on steel. His head pounds but he jumps to his feet and races towards it as fast as his feet can carry him.

The sounds grow louder, he can make out snatches of words, a few cries of “bastard” which don’t seem to be from a voice he recognizes. For the first time in his life, he can only hope that those words are directed at the Prince.

As he sprints into the clearing that serves as their base camp, he notes Lance and Griffin splayed out over the ground. Up ahead, he can see Allura and Pidge each locked in a fight with a masked bandit each. The only people they could be are members of the Fire of Purification.

Shiro starts to wonder if this whole thing was a set up. If it was too easy for the Prince to get into the Governor’s Manor. If those footsteps that Shiro heard weren’t coming to find Shiro, but to make sure that the Prince had made it into the Manor in the first place.

There’s no time to think about that now. Shiro stoops down to grab the first weapon he sees, a long, sinisterly hooked sword with a flame and an eye carved into the hilt.

Up ahead, the Prince is facing off against three opponents. Allura and Pidge keep getting lured further away from the Prince’s side and despite the number of enemies that lay dead on the ground around the camp, the odds are still very much not in their favor. Because, with only a glance, Shiro can tell that the bandit that have made their way into their camp aren’t any old thugs; ordinary bandits wouldn’t be armed with Daemon Fire Swords, deadly purple flames snaking up the blade.

Even as the Prince cuts one of the bandits down, another takes his place, swinging a hit that’s far too close of a miss. Shiro sprints, pushing his body to the limit, anything to get to the Prince’s side in time.

He spears that bandit through the center of his chest, wrenching the blade free as another two come to take his place. Shiro and the Prince fight back to back, working in seamless tandem. Although Shiro’s lost sight of the others, he can’t spare any worry for them now. They know the terms of their jobs, of their service. They’re all here in the name of protecting the Prince. They’ve all sworn to die for that if necessary.

Shiro pants, unable to catch his breath. He’s managed to train his body past most of its limitations, but he’s still human. And it’s times like these it’s the least convenient to get reminders of that fact.

Then suddenly, the weight at Shiro’s back is gone. He turns, heedless of his own safety, to see a bandit he hasn’t seen before leading the Prince off from the rest of the group. Shiro doesn’t think. It’s like he sees the bandit swinging his sword towards the Prince’s chest in slow motion. He runs, mind completely empty of anything aside from his destination and manages to get between the two of them just in time.

The pain of the cursed sword cleaving his arm from his shoulder is blinding. Shiro falls to his knees, a thick spray of blood speckling the ground beneath him. he distantly notes that it has to be his. With his remaining arm, Shiro pushes against the ground, trying to rise to his feet.

He promised to protect the Prince at all costs. He refuses to fail in that mission.

When he lifts his head, he sees one of the thugs unveiling his face, grinning as he raises his sword to deliver the finishing blow to Shiro’s throat.

He never gets a chance.

There’s a roar of rage, and then the tip of a sharp, familiar blade is protruding from his chest.

A pair of warm, familiar hands cup the side of Shiro’s face. He can still feel the blood flowing freely from the place where his ]right arm used to be.

“Captain? Shiro? Shiro stay with me. Pidge? Anyone?”

Shiro tries to answer but can’t his voice doesn’t seem to be working correctly.

“Shiro? Shiro!” A wam, calloused hand cups his forehead.

Shiro hears the sound of fabric tearing, feels something wrap tightly around his wound, and then everything goes dark.

________________________________

Two weeks later, Shiro has a new arm, and more questions than real or mechanical fingers. Still, the fusion of magic and technology means that although Shiro’s new arm may be made of metal, it responds to Shiro’s every thought as though it were a seamless extension of his body.

On the day they attached the arm, Shiro woke to the Prince sitting beside his bed, running his fingers over the angry red skin where metal met flesh. He pulled his hand back immediately, asked how Shiro was feeling, then reluctantly excused himself when Pidge had some in with a dark look and a piece of paper crumpled in her fist.

The Prince only mentioned that they were still investigating the matter that took them to Naxela, the chokehold on the quintessence supply lines.

A silent exchange between the two of them confirmed the truth Shiro had started to suspect during the moments before things took a turn for the worse.

They were sent there on purpose.

They were set up.

The Governor of Naxela was impeached, removed from his post and tried for treason. But Shiro can’t help feeling that all they really accomplished was cleaning up one of Lord Sendak’s loose ends.

________________________________

On the day that Ulaz releases Shiro from the hospital, he reminds him that he’ll need to come in for bi-weekly calibrations, to make sure the arm is a seamless fit with his nervous system—and stays that way.

Shiro nods, mentally fits it into his calendar, realizes that he has no idea what his calendar looks like anymore, then heads to his room.

It’s exactly as he left it.

Somehow, with the amount that he himself has changed, it’s jarring that it hasn’t, too.

He falls into a restless slumber, waking when it’s already dark, the moon fat and full over head.

And although he knows that he shouldn’t, there’s only one place that he wants to go.

________________________________

Shiro is familiar with the balcony that leads to the Prince’s bed chamber. Maybe overly so. How many times has he stood beneath the Prince’s balcony.

How many times has the Prince stood beneath him. 

He’s not supposed to be here. He’s still healing and it’s not proper. There are a million reasons he should be somewhere, anywhere else.

None of them are enough to make him move his feet.

None of them are enough to make him turn back. The graveled path crunches beneath his feet, the flames that line the path flicker in the wind. They look delicate, like a strong gust would be enough to blow them out or send them toppling to the ground, but Shiro knows that they’ve been here for years and have survived far worse.

The wind whistles through the trees of the garden behind him. He knows he should turn back.

No matter how many times he tells himself the same thing, his feet keep him moving forward. Hee only has a small window of time while the guard that is supposed to watch the Prince’s balcony will be conveniently distracted for a few moments.

Even with everything that’s happened in the past few weeks, with the mire of mystery that’s only increased in the weeks following the events at Naxela, Shiro knows that they have to keep the routine as close to, well, routine, as possible to avoid alerting the people that set that trap that they’re onto them.

Everything that Pidge and Hunk have found in the last couple weeks suggests only one force at work: the Fire of Purification that’s been strangling the Kingdom’s essential quintessence supply lines are doing so in order to destabilize the House of Akira’s hold on the court.

They want to put the House of Zarkon back on the throne, and it’s clear they’re playing the long game; shaking the foundation of the Kingdom, of the very fuel that almost everything in it runs on in order to do it.

Shiro looks down at his palm and flexes his fingers.

Even his new arm relies, at least partly, upon quintessence.

He steps a few meters forward, feels the warmth of the fire light flicker over his face. Above him, the door to the balcony creaks open. They’ve played this game before, but Shiro knows that tonight’s visit was a surprise—or that it was supposed to be. Shiro’s still surprised, he takes a step back and trips, cursing a little.

There’s silence for a moment before a head pops over the balcony’s railing.

“Captain Shirogane?”

“K-Your Highness,” Shiro says. It’s low, quiet, a little shaky. The wind carries it away, up to the man standing on the balcony. He knows his place, knows whats expected of him. He also knows that nothing in this court is what it seems. Knows what almost happened between the two of them in the clearing before everything went to hell. He has so many questions, and the state of the Kingdom is only some of them.  “I am...terribly sorry if I scared you. But I was hoping we could speak—uninterrupted.”

“Is that so?” The Prince says. Shiro sees a smile flicker over his features, the lack of surprise in his eyes.

There shouldn’t be any.

After all, they’ve played this game before.

Shiro bows his head in answer. “Yes your Highness.”

“Then why don’t you come up?”

**Author's Note:**

> it was a long ass road to get here so i would like to pour one out for the 17k i cut from this fic and will keep doing so [ on twitter](http://twitter.com/spooky_foot).
> 
> this is probably a bit different than what people are used to reading from me, but i’m trying to push myself with world building and descriptions. 
> 
> special thanks to:  
> -verity, the true mvp, slayer of fic dragons  
> -lorna who has listened to me tear my hair out and advised me to cut one 6k chunk  
> -bron, u have...never stopped believing in me. journey owe u some copyrights  
> -robin. god. robin. u have...literally been ready to listen to me cry. not just about this, just like...in general.  
> -audrey. i love u. u know....what u did...u angel...U ~KEPT THE MYSTERY ALIVE~  
> -all of twitter for bearing witness to...[hand waving]


End file.
